Weekend Off
by EvergreenDreamweaver
Summary: All they had in mind was a weekend project to spruce up the loft. How is it that things can go so horribly wrong for Jim and Blair?


Disclaimer: I do not own the Sentinel or any of the canon television characters, and am making no monies from this story. Any Original Characters belong to the author(s).

Note: This story was originally written in the around 2005, so technology is not at a 2017 level. Thank you in advance to anyone who might read and enjoy this, even if you don't post commentary. And apologies in advance to anyone who reads and dislikes it.

WEEKEND OFF

by EvergreenDreamweaver

Captain Simon Banks sat slumped on the thinly-padded couch in the Emergency Room waiting area of Cascade General Hospital and moodily watched his eighteen-year-old son. Daryl wasn't _quite_ pacing – the situation really didn't warrant pacing – but he was antsy. Continually getting up from his seat to prowl about the waiting room. Sitting down again and leafing aimlessly through magazines. Standing, walking over to the glass-doored entrance to peer out into the bright spring sunshine, then returning to fling himself into the chair again.

"Daryl. Light somewhere." Simon couldn't muster much enthusiasm for the reprimand.

"Sorry."

"It's okay, son; I know how you feel – but you're driving me right up the wall, here!"

"Dad, you're sure they'll be okay—?"

"Positive."

"Blair looked awfully…"

"Sandburg will be all right, Daryl. You didn't see Jim going ballistic, did you?"

"No, but—"

"Then trust me. Blair will be fine. They both will. Eventually."

Daryl picked up the outdated _Sports Illustrated_ once again, leaving his father to his gloomy thoughts. Thoughts which centered on Ellison and Sandburg – undeniably the best pair of detectives in Major Crimes, but…but….

 _How do they do it?_ Having nothing else to do, Banks pondered it in depth. _What is it about those two?_ On any given day, Jim Ellison, with his enhanced Sentinel senses and his fine-honed detective instincts, was almost a Supercop. Unmatched in unearthing clues, tracing criminals' whereabouts, and tracking them down. With intuitive, incredibly intelligent, off-the-wall Blair Sandburg at his side, he was damned near unstoppable – that is, unless something tweaked one of those ultra-sensitive senses, and he reacted!

 _Then,_ Simon mused, continuing with his hypothetical scenario, _it all goes downhill. Sandburg's trying to pull him out of a zone, or protect him while he recovers. The perp gets the jump on him, and Jim loses his gun._ Sandburg, without doubt one of the most resourceful partners in the world, would be right there, however. Either using his own gun or retrieving Jim's, or utilizing some creative method no one else would have considered, Blair would manage to subdue the perp, with his usual enthusiastic efficiency. And he'd make the collar – or he and Jim would do it together. _Then he'd make sure Jim was okay – and Jim would make sure Blair was okay – and in the process of returning Ellison's gun to him, Sandburg would manage to shoot himself in the foot!_ Banks chuckled out loud at that, earning himself a curious glance from Daryl.

 _No, no, that's not really fair,_ Simon chided himself. _He's never done that. He's a damn good cop and he knows what he's doing. It's just – that's the sort of thing that_ _would_ _happen to them. If he didn't shoot himself in the foot, a dog would decide to bite one of them._ _After_ _they'd apprehended the perp. Or a sweet little old lady would take a dislike to cops with long, curly hair, and brain him with her umbrella. Even on a weekend off!_ He sighed, looking once again at the inviting sunshine outside. _Even on a weekend off…._

SEVERAL HOURS EARLIER

"Sandburg! Up and at 'em!" A sharp rapping on the French doors to Blair's room accompanied the barked command.

Silence. Total silence.

"Sandburg! Rise and shine, Chief! We've got a full day ahead!" Jim Ellison, clad in cutoff jeans and a faded sweatshirt with the sleeves whacked short, opened the door and peered into his partner's room. He grinned, seeing the unmoving lump beneath the bedclothes, and walked over to stand beside the bed. "C'mon, Chief, time to get up."

A growl of protest, unintelligible even to Sentinel ears, came from the lump. One word was clear: "No!"

"Sandburg, we've got a project to do this weekend, remember?" Jim nudged his Guide's hip – well, he _thought_ it was his hip, anyway – and tugged at the blanket. " Told you not to stay up and watch that whole _Star Wars_ trilogy last night!" he added smugly.

This time, Blair's reply was clearer – and lengthier. It was pungent, pithy and to the point, and ended with 'go to hell, Ellison!'

"Oooh!" Jim's whistle combined admiration and reproach. "Does your mother know you talk like that, Junior?"

Blair tossed the covers back, revealing sleepy blue eyes, a pouting mouth, and a tangled mass of chestnut curls. His response this time contained considerable invective, including elaborations on 'mother,' 'son,' and 'leave me the hell alone,' and having delivered it, he flung himself back under the blankets.

With an evil chuckle, Ellison grabbed the covers and yanked them off, then beat a hasty retreat towards the door. Sensing the soft _'whiff'_ of air currents behind him, Jim ducked, and caught the wildly flung pillow before it sailed out into the living room. Prudently taking it with him, he decided on a strategic withdrawing action to the kitchen and a change in tactics.

A few moments later, he cautiously approached his partner's room again, this time bearing a peace offering. Blair had retrieved one of the blankets and was once more invisible.

"Saaaaandburg? Blair? I've got coffee…." Jim's voice was a mellow, inviting croon.

Silence. Jim counted mentally. _Five…four…three…two…one_.

"Kmphee?"

"Yes, buddy – coffee. Right here. Smell it?" Jim held the steaming cup down near where he thought Blair's head might be. "You'd like some coffee…wouldn't you, Chief?" he cooed enticingly.

"Mmm-hmmm." The dark curls emerged from beneath the blanket, and then the drowsy blue eyes, and the flushed cheeks. "Gimme…"

"Sit up first," the Sentinel bargained. "You don't want to spill it, do you?"

Reluctantly, Blair obeyed, and Ellison handed him the mug. Blair shut his eyes and inhaled the aroma, then took a long sip, and sighed. "Ohhh, man…."

"Good?" Jim's eyes twinkled with affectionate amusement.

"Yeah…."

"You'll feel a lot better after a shower and some breakfast, Chief. There're bagels. Cinnamon-raisin," Jim coaxed, in his most persuasive voice.

Blair heaved a long-suffering sigh, handed his partner the coffee cup, and moved to stand up. "You're impossible, Ellison. It's bloody eight in the bloody morning on a bloody Saturday! Why couldn't you wait until noon ?"

"I want to get started," Jim said defensively. "It'll take all day to dry! Besides, it's a beautiful day, and you ought to get up just to enjoy Cascade in the sunshine, Chief!"

Grumbling, the sleepy Guide took back his coffee and headed for the bathroom.

Forty minutes later, showered, shaved, dressed in his oldest jeans and tee-shirt, and with toasted bagels and coffee beneath his belt, Blair had to admit that it _was_ a nice day, and that Jim was right in starting this project as early as possible. But still…

Projects. Home improvement projects. _God save me from Sentinels who like to do home improvement projects!_

Jim had decided that the oak chest of drawers in his bedroom needed to be refinished. Although Blair suggested sending it out and having it done by a professional, Jim had scoffed and declared that he'd done his share of furniture-refinishing and this would be a snap. "Why the hell pay an arm and a leg to someone else when I can do it better myself, Sandburg?"

"Have you done it since your senses came online, man?"

"Uh…."

"Then we do this very, very carefully, Jim!"

Blair insisted the less Sentinel exposure to varnish remover, stain, and sealant – not to mention sawdust – in an enclosed place, the better. They'd decided that doing the work on the balcony was the best plan, so long as the weather held, and if necessary, the piece of furniture could be hauled back inside the loft overnight. Hence, the oak dresser was going to have to be transported down the stairs and out the balcony door.

Jim being Jim, the process was precise and detailed – which was enough to drive Blair to distraction. First, the Sentinel insisted, he had to unpack all the dresser drawers. Blair was fine with that, no problem. But Jim wasn't about to just set the stacks of clothes on his bed, no way, uh-uh! He wasn't going to put up with that, and besides, 'I have to sleep there tonight, Darwin !' They had to be carefully placed in boxes, or sacks, or whatever.

Muttering beneath his breath about anal-retentive, neat-freak-cops – just loud enough that he _knew_ Jim could hear him the whole way – Blair trotted down to the basement and brought up boxes, and then made several trips carrying the emptied drawers downstairs and out to the balcony, while Jim contentedly did his temporary storage. At last, however, things were put away to Ellison's satisfaction, and the roommates were ready for the task of carrying the heavy oak dresser down the steps.

"I'll do the backwards part," Blair offered, as they shoved the bureau across Jim's bedroom floor to the head of the staircase.

"You sure, Chief? I'm taller; it might be better for me to be on the lower side." Jim frowned at the stairs consideringly.

"You're also stronger," Blair candidly admitted. "I want you up above, holding that thing from falling on top of me! If it started to slip and I was on the upside, you'd be Squashed Sentinel Soup before I could do anything about it, man!"

Jim grimaced. "Lovely image there, Sandburg."

His Guide grinned. "I know…don't I have such a way with words?"

"Undeniably, Chief. All right, let's do this."

Carefully, they edged the bureau to the top of the stairs. Blair edged past, went down a few steps, turned around, and grasped the sides firmly. Taking a deep breath, he tightened the muscles in his arms and hefted. "Let's go…."

One step down…two…three. Heavy and unwieldy, but manageable. First it was just backing down the stairs carefully while balancing the solid bulk of the dresser – and then abruptly, it was tilted and much, much heavier, as Jim heaved it off the supporting top step. "Unghh!"

"You okay, Chief?"

"Yeah – man, this sucker's heavy!"

"I know, but oak…lasts forever."

Sandburg growled softly. "Birch is nice…" he griped, "and lasts nearly as long. And it's lighter!"

Step…step. Feeling his way carefully with his feet, glancing over a shoulder while still keeping his end of the dresser off the stairs. Blair gulped in another breath of much-needed air. "Can you…imagine…if we'd…decided to…take it to…the basement?"

"Never make it," came the clipped reply. "You holding up okay, Chief?"

"Yeah, I—"

Looking back later, neither of the partners could ever say exactly how it happened. Perhaps Blair's foot slipped on the edge of a stair. Perhaps Jim's grip loosened a tiny bit. Perhaps the dresser caught on the wall or the stair railing, throwing its precarious balance off. _How_ and _why_ were forever to remain a mystery.

 _Reality_ was the descending weight overwhelming Blair, shoving him backwards…back…back…down. It was the drag against Jim's straining arms, pulling him inexorably down the stairs, his feet scrabbling frantically for purchase on a step, sliding then, both feet sliding, underneath.

Reality was the screech of wood against brick and metal. And reality was Blair's agonized scream – and joining it, echoing it…Jim's.

There had been a few seconds of blessed unawareness, Ellison felt sure. Just those few tiny ticks of the clock when he was merely feeling startled and surprised to find himself sprawled on the stairs, with the oak dresser lying solidly against his left leg. And then, the pain hit. Flames of agony licking through his leg, running down to his foot and up to his thigh, but concentrated a few inches above his ankle. Involuntarily, he cried out again, unable to stifle the sound even if he'd consciously thought about attempting it.

Even as his body reacted to the pain, he was already responding automatically to cope with it. Blair's oft-repeated drills kicked in, and Jim found himself instinctively dialing the pain down to manageable levels. It was tempting to turn the thing all the way to zero, but he knew he didn't dare. For now, though, it was going to one-and-a-half…well, maybe two.

Exhaling slowly as the agony eased, Jim reached down and tentatively felt along his leg. It was difficult to be sure, of course, even for him, but every indication pointed to a broken bone. Other than that, and some sore spots that would probably become bruises, he seemed to be unhurt. But what about…

 _Blair!_

"Sandburg? Chief?" Ellison clenched his fists and listened. A reassuring heartbeat thundered immediately in his ears, and he became aware of Blair's gasps for breath – and the soft, nearly continuous moans of pain. And then the coppery taint of blood. Not a lot of blood, but it was definitely there. "BLAIR!"

"J-jim…." Intelligible words began to emerge from the stream of anguished sounds. "Oh…ohgod…ohmigod…."

"Blair – Blair, buddy – how are you hurt?" Jim realized there was no sense in asking the ridiculous question 'are you all right?' Sandburg obviously _wasn't_ all right; the question now was how badly he was hurt! "Talk to me, Blair!"

"I – oh Jim, it hurts…" The Guide's tremulous words echoed in Ellison's mind, reminding him sharply of a time when he'd heard his partner utter them before: Blair – lying stunned on that hotel room floor, helpless with pain caused by the impact of two bullets fired at close range into the Kevlar vest he'd worn. Eerily, Blair seemed to recall it too. "Hurts like…when Zeller shot me….Must've done something…to my ribs." A pause. "Jim – where are you, man? I can't…see you…."

"I'm at the top of the stairs," Jim hastened to say. "The dresser's between us, that's why we can't see each other, Chief."

"Are you okay?"

"Well, I'm pretty sure I've busted my leg, but other than that, yeah, I'm okay."

"Busted your leg?" Blair's voice was rough with shock and his own pain. "You've dialed down the pain, right?"

"Oh yeah."

"Not all the way, Jim, did you? It's dangerous—"

"No, Chief, not all the way. Now, tell me how you're hurt," Jim interposed firmly.

Blair was silent a moment, evidently cataloging his injuries. "My ribs…my back feels bruised…and I think I must've hit my head on something, because it really hurts. And…um…ow, there's a little cut, I guess…and I'm dizzy. But that's maybe…maybe it's because I'm…upside down…." Sandburg's voice trailed off into dazed silence.

"Upside down?" Jim craned his neck in vain; his view of his Guide was completely obscured by the massive bureau between them. "You're upside down?"

"Yeah…backwards and upside down on the stairs." Blair sounded decidedly tense. "I feel like I'm gonna slide to the bottom…except that I can't move. The dresser's on top of me, man!"

The Sentinel drew in a slow breath, feeling a shudder of apprehension flicker through his body. They were in more of a tight situation than he'd first realized. Here _he_ was, trapped by the bureau at the top of the stairs; there _Sandburg_ was, equally trapped at the bottom.

"And it's on top of my leg up here."

"Oh man, this is so not good, Jim!" Blair's voice shook.

"Hang in there, Chief, I'm going to see if I can move it enough to get out." Tentatively, Jim pushed up on the dresser, trying to lift it enough to slide his fractured leg free. A sharp intake of breath below made him stop immediately.

"Ow! Jim, don't!"

 _I was afraid of that….trying to get it off_ _me_ _presses it down on_ _him_ _!_ Jim tugged experimentally on his leg, hoping to work it out from under. The pain, even with the dial set below 2, made him desist with a hiss. "Blair, we have to get out of this – and it's going to have to be you first, buddy."

"Me? Why me?" Blair asked plaintively.

"Because all the phones are down there, and we definitely need help here," Jim answered. "Otherwise, no one will even know something's wrong until Monday morning when we don't show up for work!"

"Oh God."

"Sandburg, is the bureau right down on top of you, or do you have a little wiggle room?" Jim mentally crossed his fingers.

"I've got some room – maybe a half inch…or a little less," Blair said, sounding breathless. "It must have hit me and then bounced up. But when you tried to move it, it came right down on me again."

Jim thought frantically. Okay, he couldn't shift the dresser. But maybe he could hold it stationary and keep it from sliding down onto his partner while Blair wiggled out. "Chief, do you think you can slide out from under, if I hold it still?"

"Yeah…." Blair sounded somewhat doubtful. "Maybe. But…sliding backwards down steps…not sure how my ribs and my back are gonna react, man!"

"It's only a step or two," Jim encouraged. "Once you're free, you can swing around and sit up and go down right-side-up." He carefully disregarded the very real possibility that Blair's injuries might prevent him from any of this maneuvering. _He can do this…he can. He has to._ "And then you can call 911"

"Okay…."

"You ready to try, Chief?"

"Guess so…Jim, man, you might want to turn your hearing way down." Blair gulped, audibly. "I might…scream…or something."

Jim winced. The thought of Blair being in that much pain made him queasy. "Sandburg," he gritted, "if it helps, you scream your damn head off; you hear?"

"Yeah…. Jim?

"Huh?"

"I'm – I'm scared to do this. I feel like I'm gonna fall all the way to the bottom, man!" Blair's voice was shaking again.

"Chief, hold onto the railings. Hold tight. You can control it, you can keep from falling." Ellison tried to sound confident. What if Blair _couldn't_ control the descent? What if he slipped, and fell…. "Okay? Blair?"

"Okay….Here goes…hold it steady, Jim, please."

Jim gripped as tightly as he could, and even managed to tilt the chest of drawers the slightest bit upwards, clenching his teeth at the pain he was inflicting on himself. _Come on Sandburg, do it; get it over with fast!_ Instead of dialing down his hearing as Blair had advised, the Sentinel focused even more closely on his partner.

Soft grunts of pain, accelerated heartbeat, breath hitching into gasps. And then, unexpectedly, the sounds of gagging and constricted breathing.

"Blair?"

The Guide coughed and groaned. "Ow, shit, it hurts when I cough!"

"What's wrong?"

"Something unexpected." Blair made a valiant attempt to laugh a little. "When I start scooting backwards, my shirt pulls down and chokes me!"

Jim grimaced. "Pull it up as far as you can and try again," he advised.

"Right…." Once again there came the grunts of effort. Soft sobbing gasps of pain, and choked curses. Strangling sounds, for just a few seconds. And then: "Okay…I'm out. Give me a minute to get turned around. Ow…ow…ouch, damnit!"

Jim craned his neck again and peered down through the spindles. He watched as Blair appeared in his line of sight, carefully hitching himself down the stairs on his butt, holding one arm tightly against his midriff, and still clutching the railings with a death grip. Gratefully, Ellison eased his grasp on the heavy bureau, letting it tilt down and relieve the pressure against his broken leg.

"You doing okay, Chief?"

"Ask me later." Blair shifted to his hands and knees as he reached the bottom of the staircase. Slowly, still muttering "ow's," and various epithets, he crawled across the floor towards the coffee table, where the cordless phone and their cell phones rested. "Okay, I'm out of the way, Jim; you can move the dresser." He sank down with a groan. "Wow, look at the walls revolve…"

The older man put his hands beneath the bureau and heaved upwards, raising it perhaps an inch. Cautiously, he maneuvered his legs out from under, hissing at the sharp stabs of pain jabbing through the left one; slowly he pulled himself up one step, then another, until he was completely free.

"Look out, below!" Although it wasn't really necessary to move it any more, since he was no longer trapped beneath it, Jim set his right foot against the bureau and shoved, feeling the desire to severely punish the troublesome piece of furniture. The bureau tilted and slid down perhaps three steps, then stopped, solidly wedged. "Oh for God's sake!" Stuck. He was still stuck. There was no possible way he could clamber down those stairs over the bureau.

"It's okay, Jim; I'll call 911; we'll be okay." Blair tried to reassure his irate Sentinel.

Again, Jim looked downward. Blair was propped against the couch, looking entirely too pale, beads of sweat dotting his forehead. "Chief, do it fast; you look like you're gonna pass out."

"I'm…considering that," Sandburg whispered, and reached a shaking hand for the phone. He dialed…waited. "Yeah, I need an ambulance at 852 Prospect, Apartment 307 …."

A few moments later, Jim heard his partner's disconcerted voice: "What? No, no one's bleeding severely, but…no, I suppose we're not either of us in a life-threatening situation, but…yeah, yeah, I understand. Okay, get one here as soon as you can, okay?" Then there came the soft _beep_ of the 'end' button, and Sandburg's weary sigh.

"What's wrong? Aren't they sending an ambulance?" Jim demanded anxiously.

"Yeah, but we're a ways down on the list," the voice from below responded. "Apparently there was a big pile-up on the freeway south – everything got sent out there, and there aren't any available units right now."

Jim swore, first in English and then in Quechua, and heard Blair's slightly hysterical chuckle from the living room. "Chief, call Simon."

"Right…right." The tiny chirp of the single-digit speed dial came clearly to the Sentinel's ears. "He's gonna be pissed at us, you know…God, Jim, my head hurts – the ribs and back aren't too bad if I stay still, but my head – hello, Daryl?"

Jim extended his hearing.

" _Yeah, this is Daryl; who's this?"_

"It's Blair—"

" _Hey, man! What's up?"_

"Daryl, listen, Jim and I need some help – we've had a sort of…accident."

" _HUH? Your car? Are you hurt?"_ A shout away from the receiver came through clearly: _"DAD! Pick up the phone!"_

Blair waited until he heard the noise of another receiver being lifted. "Not the car – we're home. Jim thinks his leg's broken, and I…I…I'm not too sure about me. Maybe cracked some ribs…" He swallowed, trying to force down a wave of nausea.

Jim yelled as loud as he could, hoping the sound would transmit. "He hit his head, Simon!"

" _You've called an ambulance, Sandburg?"_ Simon's voice crackled through the connection.

"Yeah, but…not sure when one…can get here," Blair whispered. "There was a wreck on the freeway….Simon, Jim's trapped upstairs—"

" _Hang on, we're on our way."_ Two receivers crashed into place as one, disconnecting the call. Blair emitted a whimpering sigh and turned the phone off, dropping it on the table once more.

"Jim, Simon's coming." If Ellison hadn't had his hearing turned up, he might not have been able to discern the thready words.

"Good, Chief." Jim tried to project encouragement. "You just take it easy now; just relax and rest, okay? Just stay still."

"'K…right…."

#####

"Blair?" Jim's quiet voice broke the silence. Not receiving an immediate response, he tried again, a little louder, a tiny flutter of panic tickling his throat. Blessed Protector mode, on full throttle. "Blair!"

"Yeah…'m here, man. Where else would I be?"

"You okay?"

"Uh-huh…."

"I can hear Simon and Daryl coming."

"Oh…okay." Blair slowly sat up straight, flinching at the pains which shot through his body. Before the Sentinel realized what his partner intended, Sandburg had struggled to his feet and was headed for the door.

"Damn it, Chief, Simon's got a key—" Jim broke off the exasperated reprimand and watched as Blair wrenched open the door and leaned shakily against the jamb.

"H-hey, Simon…Daryl. Thanks for coming…."

"Sandburg, you look like hell!" Simon Banks swept into the loft, gathering Blair up with one arm as he did so. "You shouldn't be on your feet. Daryl, help him over to the couch." He handed Sandburg off to his son's support, and surveyed the apartment, his eyes widening as he took in the blocked staircase. "My God, what in hell were you two doing?"

"Refinishing furniture, Simon," Jim commented dryly from his bedroom. "Or so we intended, anyway."

"Hell." Banks glared at the dresser venomously. "You okay, Jim?" he added, looking upwards towards his best detective.

"As okay as I can be, trapped up here with a broken leg," Ellison grumbled. "But I think I'm better off than Blair, at the moment." He kept his eyes fixed on his partner, who was now stretched limply on the white couch, with Daryl hovering worriedly above him.

"I radioed in about needing an ambulance here stat." Banks ascended the stairs and took hold of the wedged chest of drawers, giving it a tentative shake. "They said they'd get one here as fast as possible. Do you think Daryl and I could move this thing?"

"No…don't try it, Simon." Blair spoke quickly from the couch, without opening his eyes. "Wait until you've got more people. It's bad enough with Jim and me being hurt. Don't want anything to happen to you guys."

"Sirens…I hear sirens," Jim murmured, before Simon could reply.

The paramedics arrived minutes later. While one of the young men attended to Blair, the other, working with Daryl and Simon, managed to move the dresser down the stairs into the living room, and then hastened up to Jim's bedroom. Shortly thereafter, Jim's leg was in a temporary air splint, Blair's cut had been cleaned –luckily it had already stopped bleeding – and the detective partners were on stretchers in the ambulance, on their way to Cascade General Hospital . Simon and Daryl locked up the loft and followed by car.

 _And now, here we are_ , Simon mused. He and Daryl had been waiting here for over an hour – and this was _after_ they had _all_ sat around in the waiting room for nearly 45 minutes until someone deigned to see Ellison and Sandburg! He was forced to admit that their injuries probably didn't rate them immediate attention, in comparison to the car accident victims who were being brought in, but Simon was used to his men being treated _immediately_ – and this seeming lack of concern rankled!

"Hey, Cap." The soft-rough voice startled the captain out of his pensive thoughts, and he looked up to behold Jim Ellison standing before him, balancing on crutches, his lower left leg in a blue fiberglass cast. Tired lines etched his face, but the detective wore a wry smile.

"Jim!" Banks decided Ellison looked weary, but overall, pretty good. "How you doing?"

"Okay – it was just a simple break. Doctor says probably six weeks." Cautiously, Jim eased himself into a chair, stretching his leg out in front of him. "I'm supposed to keep it elevated as much as possible, though, to keep the swelling down. For a week, at least."

"Finally gonna take some of that accumulated sick leave, huh?" Banks grunted, and grinned at Ellison's rueful grimace.

"Do you know how Blair is?" Daryl anxiously inquired.

Jim's gaze went unfocused for a moment, and his head cocked to one side. Simon recognized the gesture, and winked at Daryl, who grinned in response. Jim's abilities were an open secret to the Major Crimes division, and by extension, to Daryl, after all.

"He's…" Jim frowned. "He's okay, but…he's upset." He struggled to get to his feet, reaching for the crutches. "Damn, he's fussing because no one will tell him about me!"

Simon put out a restraining hand, just a little too late. "Ellison!" He watched Jim's retreating back as the detective swung purposefully towards the treatment area. "Damn it," he muttered softly.

"Daddy, it'll be okay," Daryl said quietly. "And you know that having Jim there will settle Blair faster than anything else."

Simon nodded, conceding the point, and settled back into his chair once more. _Let them handle it._

"Detective Sandburg, if you'd just lie back – you need to stay quiet, with that head injury—"

"Please, can't you tell me my partner's condition?" Blair pleaded with the plump little dark-haired nurse in the pink-flowered smock who was attempting to restrain him. "I need to see him…but I promise I'll lie down if you'd just find out, and tell me!"

"I'm not sure, but I believe Detective Ellison's in Ortho at the moment, being casted," the nurse replied hesitantly.

"No, he's not," Jim spoke from the doorway. "He's right here." As swiftly as he could on the crutches, he moved to Blair's side.

"Jim! Oh God, Jim, I was so worried…" Hands outstretched towards his friend, Blair was once more struggling to sit erect, to the nurse's consternation.

"It's okay, Chief," Ellison soothed his Guide, and shifted one crutch to take Blair's hand. "I'm okay. See? Just a pretty blue cast. Now, do what this nice lady – uh, Kathy," as he read the nurse's ID tag "—what Kathy tells you, and lie down. How are you doing?" Although he addressed the question to Blair, Jim's eyes sought the nurse's for reassurance.

"I'm okay." Blair tightened his fingers about his Blessed Protector's. "I'm glad you're all right. I just cracked a couple ribs – bruised my back."

"And a concussion," the nurse put in, smiling reproachfully at Blair. "Which is the whole reason you're still lying here, Detective Sandburg. The doctor wants you to stay here for a while longer, so we can keep an eye on you and make sure you aren't going to have any trouble with that bump on your head."

"Well…yeah. That too," Blair mumbled, not meeting Jim's gaze.

"Sandburg, sometimes I have an urge to kill you," Ellison muttered under his breath. Louder, he added, "Can I stay with my partner? I'll see that he stays quiet. I was an Army medic; I know what to watch for," he added, as Kathy looked doubtful.

"In that case, I think it would be okay," she consented with another smile. "I don't believe Dr. Pritchard is intending on keeping him overnight, but he wanted to be sure…. Detective Sandburg will need to have someone stay with him, tonight, however."

"That would be me," Jim said with a grin. "We're roommates." He squeezed Blair's fingers. "If he doesn't behave I'll smack him with my crutch."

The nurse laughed at that, and at Blair's outraged expression. "The ultimate threat," she said, and went out the door, leaving the Sentinel and Guide alone.

Blair sighed, and rolled his head gingerly on the flat pillow, turning away from Jim's concerned gaze. "I'm sorry," he whispered.

"For what?"

"All this." Blair waved his free hand vaguely.

"And how, might I ask, is it your fault?"

Blair shrugged. "I know the thing with the dresser's not my fault, Jim, it's just…I'm just sorry, okay? And this is my fault," he went on gloomily, again waving his hand, "having to stay here because of my head."

Jim joggled his partner's wrist gently. "Blair…look at me." He waited until Sandburg's face turned in his direction. "I'm just as sorry as you are, buddy – but it's nobody's fault, got it? It was an accident. That's all it was. Pretty soon we'll go home and recover and things will be okay again."

"Desk duty…" Blair mumbled guiltily. "You hate being stuck behind a desk."

"I'll survive," Ellison assured him. "Now, why don't you shut your eyes and try to relax? I'm gonna duck out and tell Simon and Daryl that you're pretty much okay, and then I'll be right back."

"Okay…." Heaving another sigh, Blair obediently closed his eyes. With a last squeeze, Jim released his hand and made his halting way back to the waiting room, where he delivered his welcome news.

"Wow, that's good." Daryl sagged limply into a chair, sighing with relief.

Simon was as relieved as his son. "That's great, Jim!"

"I'm going back to stay with him," Jim continued. "I'm not sure when the doc's gonna release him. I don't want you to have to wait around, Simon – but I guess we'll need a ride home eventually…."

"How about if I take Daryl home and then give you a call?" Banks offered. "You might have a better idea by then." He reached into his pocket. "I grabbed your cell phone."

"Thanks, sir, I appreciate it." Ellison smiled at his captain gratefully. "We appreciate this whole thing, Simon."

"Jim, we were glad to help," the other man assured him. "Now, get back to Sandburg and tell him we're glad he's feeling a little better."

Jim didn't argue.

"Dad, don't take me home," Daryl said, as soon as they were outside the hospital building.

"But…"

"Listen! Jim and Blair can't go back to the loft by themselves with Jim's bureau sitting in the middle of the living room floor…"

"Son, we can't put it back upstairs!"

Daryl sighed and chewed his lip. "Okay, let's at least go move it so it's sort of out of the way, and fix things up so that they can rest when they get home."

Banks gazed at his son with open affection and admiration. "Daryl, there are times I'm especially proud of you, and this is one of them." He unlocked the car. "Let's see how much we can get done in a hurry."

#####

"Simon…Daryl…I can't believe this…you guys shouldn't have…." Blair stood in the doorway of his room, looking at the tidy bed with its smooth covers folded back invitingly; at the nightstand holding a thermal container of water and a bottle of aspirin. "It looks…incredible."

"It certainly does." Jim was standing in the living room, balancing on his crutches and staring at the couches, now both made up with sheets and blankets and pillows. Staring at the coffee table, which held freezer-gel cold packs, water and more aspirin as well. At the kitchen table, where a large pizza box wafted steam and enticing aromas into the air. And at the oak dresser, drawers replaced, sitting next to the balcony door, as out of the way as possible, as if it were ashamed of itself. "I know I can do stairs with crutches; I've done it before…but I'm glad I don't have to do it tonight." He looked out the glass door at the mid-afternoon sunlight. "Today. It feels later than it is."

"When you do make it upstairs," Simon commented quietly, "all those boxes are cleared off your bed, Jim. And we picked up some stuff for dinner, and your breakfast and lunch tomorrow, that you can just reheat."

The Sentinel gave him a weary, grateful smile. "Thanks, Simon." He made his way slowly over to Blair. "Chief, if you need to hit the bathroom, do it now. In five minutes I want you to be on that couch, and you're gonna stay there until you go to bed."

"But I don't…" Sandburg looked up at his Blessed Protector's stern visage, sighed, and capitulated without a fight. "Okay." He shuffled off, stopping to look back wistfully. "I do get some pizza, don't I?"

"Yes, Sandburg, you get some pizza," Simon chuckled. "Did you think we were going to send you to bed without anything to eat?"

"IF you're not still feeling queasy," Ellison interposed. "Trust me, Chief, upchucking would not be any fun right now."

Blair grimaced and disappeared into the bathroom.

"Jim sit down and put that leg up," Banks instructed, ushering Ellison to a couch. "Do you need to take any pain meds? I know the doc gave you some."

"No, I'm fine." Jim carefully lowered himself to a seat, and let the captain help him get his leg settled. "I might take something a little later, but right now I'm just hungry!" He grinned. "Daryl, bring over the pizza – and some plates and napkins."

#####

"Sometimes I think we just go through life with a nasty little black cloud over our heads, man!" Blair gingerly eased himself onto one couch and watched as Jim did the same on the other. "Everything we try to do seems to turn into a catastrophe!"

They had just finished eating a late dinner and cleaning up the kitchen – discovering in the process that it took them both working together to accomplish anything: Jim could move around pretty well, but couldn't pick up anything or carry it, while using crutches. Blair had use of his hands, but standing too long or walking too much was painful for his ribs and back, increased his headache, and rapidly exhausted him.

"Oh, I don't think so." Ellison was surprisingly mellow, considering the day they'd had. "We just feel that way because we tend to remember the bad stuff. Things turn out okay a lot of the time, Chief." Carefully, he adjusted a pillow beneath his cast.

Blair eyed the dresser, standing meekly near the balcony door. "It's all your fault," he told it sourly.

"You always talk to furniture, Darwin?"

"It needs a good talking-to," Blair grumbled, still giving the dresser the evil eye. "It's all its fault."

"Sometimes I really think you're tetched in the head, you know."

"Jim, you can't deny it; if it wasn't for that dresser, you wouldn't have a broken leg and I wouldn't have…everything else!"

"Well, that's true enough. But it's not like it plotted it out and did it on purpose. And it still needs to be refinished," Jim mused, staring at it thoughtfully.

Blair turned horrified blue eyes on his roommate. "You're not actually considering…"

"Well, it DOES still need to be refinished, and it's downstairs now," Ellison went on, carefully not meeting his partner's gaze.

"Jim, you have got to be kidding! You have GOT to be kidding. Tell me you're kidding, Jim…."

"Well, I can do a lot of it sitting down, and I'll be home, after all."

"…."

"Hey, c'mon, don't look like that….Sandburg, sit down, you're supposed to be resting, remember…."

"…."

"Ah, jeez, Blair, don't – Chief, you're not crying, are you? YOU don't have to help, I promise – hey, where are you going?"

"…."

"Blair…Blair, come on now….Sandburg – put the gun down…."

The End


End file.
